


Among the Wolves

by Stormpulse



Series: Blood and Circumstance [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Isaac POV, M/M, isaac lives au, otherwise canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26657722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormpulse/pseuds/Stormpulse
Summary: Isaac doesn't know it, but there's a cross out there with his name on it.
Series: Blood and Circumstance [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1931080
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	Among the Wolves

Valentine is the kind of town that could be described as nice, depending on who you asked and which way the wind was blowing. Today it's blowing east, carrying the smell of manure right into Isaac's meager tent, so he'd call it a dump if you asked. 

The sun has only just peeked the horizon, her cloud-shrouded glow chasing off the stars and lightening the sky by minutes. The cattle are lowing, the sheep are braying, and a train whistles its departure from the station. His neighbors in this tent city are already up and moving, brewing coffee, getting dressed, and tacking horses, carrying on conversations amongst themselves all the while. Upon waking, Isaac takes a moment to glare at the canvas of his tent, mentally willing the sun to stop her slow march, for him to suddenly go deaf, if only for a few more minutes rest. The sun remains unmoved, so Isaac drags himself off the ground, grabs his water bucket, and takes a long drink. 

It doesn't take him long to get ready for the day. He has next to nothing in terms of possessions. He's got the clothes on his back, the boots on his feet, and two dollars in his pocket, still enough to be worth robbing. His horse is at the stable, along with his saddle and gun. They would've been gone by now otherwise, stolen like the rest of his things. Not that he had many things to begin with. 

He stretches his arms over his head and yawns, back popping with the motion. He looks out to the west, where the Heartlands sprawl endlessly emerald before him, and longs to ride out and not look back. He would have left weeks ago if he could've, back in April, but his pan got stolen, then his knife and his axe, even his bedroll. Tomorrow he'll probably wake up to find his tent gone, too. With what he makes at the stable, he'll have to stay through winter again to get it all back, thoroughly stuck in the sinking mud that is Valentine. 

It's barely past seven in the morning as he walks the short distance over to the stables. The owner, a thin, aged-looking fella named Mr. Levi is already pounding out horseshoes. Taking advantage of that, Isaac makes his way over to Banshee's stall. She whickers sleepily at his appearance, leaning into his hand rubbing the splash of white just beneath her forelock, eyes momentarily drifting closed in contentment. 

"Hey, girl," he murmurs, casting quick glances at the other stalls. Banshee's feed bucket appears to have been filled and nearly cleared out already. Mr. Levi always feeds the horses first thing. He always leaves treats out, too. Apples and carrots and a little bag of wrapped peppermints all on the table next to the tack. As Issac backs over to the table, Banshee cranes her neck over the stall door to watch him. He knows Mr. Levi doesn't like him helping himself, but he takes a bite out of an apple anyway just to take the edge of his hunger. Isaac figures he wouldn't leave them out all the time if he cared too much. He slips a couple peppermints into his pocket as well, then unwraps a third for Banshee. 

It's Isaac's job to lead them out into the paddock and muck the stalls. He starts with Banshee, slipping the halter over her big head and attaching the lead. Her eyes seem to light up as soon as she hears the lock on her stall, and she rears when the door swings open, snorting her excitement and forcing Isaac to duck. 

"Wild girl," he says fondly as she gets down. He leads her out and cuts her loose in the paddock, feeling a pang of guilt as she canters around the perimeter. It's nearly been a week since he last found the time or energy to take her out and work her hard. No doubt she's feeling cooped up. 

She's a beautiful horse, his Banshee, a mustang through and through, with a gleaming bay coat and tar-black mane to match the stripe along her spine. She's got little black stripes on her legs too, bleeding into tufts of more black hair on her fetlocks to lend her an almost prehistoric appearance. She was born wild, tamed on the cliffs of the Rio Del Lobo and given to him as a gift by the Indians of the area. She was never truly broken, mustangs are particularly stubborn in that regard, but she minds Isaac better than anyone else. Mr. Levi only interacts with her as far as filling the bucket. 

Tearing his eyes from her, Isaac goes to let the rest of the horses out. Cash, Charlie, Copper, Ransome, Rebel and Yankee all soon join Banshee in the paddock. 

From here it's a matter of routine. Isaac mucks out the stalls and replaces the straw. He draws fresh water from the well to refill the troughs and tops off the feed buckets with the mix Mr. Levi keeps on hand. He gives the tack a quick once over and sweeps down the main aisle. Mr. Levi pops in occasionally, either looking for paperwork or a specific thing someone’s looking to buy. He’s a man of few words and he leaves Isaac to his work. By the time Isaac goes back out to bring the horses in, the sun is hanging just west of center in the sky. It takes him another couple of hours of nonstop effort to brush down and pick the hooves of all seven horses before leading them back to their stalls. Finished for the moment, he falls onto the nearest stool with a heavy sigh. His back is sore, his arms are trembling with exhaustion, and his face tingles with sunburn

He lets his back rest against the barn wall. He pushes the mop of sweaty brown hair out of his face, only to end up smearing mud across his forehead. A stubborn lock falls right back across the mud.

His shirt sticks uncomfortably to his skin. His throat is so dry it almost hurts so swallow, but the water bucket is still out by the well and he is tired. Compared to the field, the inside of the barn is blessedly cool. The soft sound of horses breathing around him is infinitely more peaceful than the cacophony of noise outside. He lets eyes drift close. Even with the work done, he should still go find Mr. Levi. No matter how much Isaac manages to get done, there’s always errands the man doesn’t feel like doing himself, and until 7 o’clock, he’s to do whatever he’s told. Still, Isaac’s just cut what should’ve been a whole day’s work in half. Mr. Levi couldn’t possibly miss him for a minute or two...

The barn doors clatter open, nearly startling him right off the stool. He sits up immediately, peeling his back off the wall, and realizes with dawning horror that the light outside is different. Hours different. Mr. Levi strolls in with a hay bale, eyes hardly glancing over Isaac before they suddenly snap back. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Levi,” Isaac blurts before he can properly think the words. His voice sounds rough even to his own ears. “I don’t know what came over me, but I promise it won’t happen again. I’m so sorry!”

Mr. Levi’s stern expression doesn’t soften, brown eyes drilling holes into Isaac. He sets the bale on top of a stack that wasn’t there earlier. Apparently, he’s been at it for some time, and Isaac had slept through it until now.

God, how could this have happened? Isaac feels like he’s only slept a minute. 

Mr. Levi gestures at Isaac’s feet, and the boy looks down to see a bucket of water. He almost falls over himself reaching for it, drinking straight from the bucket, letting the water slosh all down the front of his shirt. Distantly, over the sound of his own desperate gulping, he can hear Mr. Levi snort.

He’s still parched even after the bucket is drained. He sets it and wobbles to his feet, heading for the open door. He should help move those bales if there’s any left. However, Mr. Levi puts an arm out to stop him as he walks by.

This is the moment Isaac’s been bracing for since he woke up. Mr. Levi is gonna tell him to get lost, to take his horse with him. Someone would steal Banshee faster than he could blink. He’d have to leave town, and somehow make it to the next one armed only with a gun that he has no bullets for. Strawberry is closest, but it still gets cold up there at night and Isaac only has a tattered piece of canvas to protect him from the chill. He has enough money to buy food or bullets, but not both. 

"You work hard, kid," Mr. Levi says casually, and if that's not the exact opposite of what Isaac wasn't expecting to hear. "I see you out there. People are gonna think I'm some kind of slave driver."

"I- huh? What?" Isaac sputters out, dumbfounded. 

"This kind of work," Mr. Levi carries on as if unhearing, "Is a marathon, not a race. Ain't no reason for you to be sprinting from the start. You ain't leaving early just because you finished minding the horses early. Rushed work is sloppy work. When you come in tomorrow, you take your time, understand?" 

Isaac nods slowly, feeling faint with relief. Banshee is safe. Mr. Levi looks him over, lets out a small _tsk_ under his breath. 

"Take the day," he decides then, reaching around his apron and into the pocket of his jeans. "And here- your wages." He deposits four one-dollar coins into Isaac's open hand. "Wait a second."

Isaac pockets the money and watches, dumbfounded again, as Mr. Levi walks over to his desk and opens a drawer. He retrieves from it a small, paper wrapper. He passes it to Isaac, who unfolds it to reveal several strips of jerky. His mouth immediately waters, but he manages to remember his manners. 

"Thank you, sir," he says, swallowing down the sudden flood of spit in his mouth. "I appreciate it."

Mr. Levi just claps him on the shoulder, almost good-naturedly. "You work hard, kid," he repeats. "See you bright and early tomorrow. You're gonna take your time."

"Yessir," Isaac replies, straightening under the attention. Mr. Levi waves him out of the stable. 

Isaac wanders the main street of Valentine in something of a daze. He takes refuge on the bench under the awning of the Saints Hotel and slowly eats the jerky. It's a little too tough and a little too salty, but considering it's the first real food he's had in days, it may as well be gourmet. No wonder he passed out earlier. 

He takes stock of the mainstreet as he chews. Riders move up and down the street, wagons rumble along, people pop in and out of the buildings. There's a couple men hammering nails into wood at the half-finished building going up next to the general store. Piano music spills out from the adjacent saloon, hardly intelligible over the noisy street. There's a kid selling newspapers outside the gun store, calling out headlines. On the other end of the street, between the stables and the general store, that sickly man from the ranch just south of town is collecting for charity. 

Isaac watches him for a few minutes, notices how most people just walk to the other side of the street rather than walk past him. It's almost pitiful, watching the man have to take breaks in his speech to accommodate his awful, wet cough. Something about it prickles at Isaac. Just last week, the man's wife came to the stables to sell Yankee, their family horse. Mr. Downes, if Isaac heard it right, can't even keep his own family fed. Yet in spite of that, he's always out collecting charity not for himself, but for the "less fortunate." Isaac can't think of anything less fortunate than that, except maybe him. 

Mr. Downes would probably give Isaac what little money he had, if he asked. Isaac scoffs at the thought. The sun hangs heavy to the west at that annoying, blinding angle. Isaac reckons it's after five, probably closer to six. Maybe he should go back to the stable and take Banshee out. He feels much better with food in his stomach, though he imagines that Mr. Levi would just put him back to work if he were to show up.

Instead, he crosses the street to the general store. He means to buy some food, but comes up just short of the door when he just barely hears a booming, unrefined laugh. 

It's a strange sound for his ears to pick out over the rest of the noise, but Isaac hears it and _aches_. Unbidden, the memory of _home_ floats to the front of his mind, dragging up all the longing and grief that comes with it. 

_Got caught up on the road._

His feet are carrying him down the street before he's fully aware of it, arms throwing open the Smithfield's doors, eyes searching every face in the room. It's an easy thing to do, because everyone turned to look at him the moment he barged in. Even the pianist stopped playing and in the sudden silence, pinned under the stares of a roomful of rough men, Isaac feels very small. Whatever blind hope that drove him in here withers. 

He realizes like ice in his veins that he doesn't remember what dad looked like. Doesn't remember much of him at all, actually, except apparently what he sounded like. Why the hell would he be here, of all places? 

Seconds seem to drag on as Isaac considers. 

"Are you alright, son?" the bartender asks tentatively. Isaac remembers to breathe, glances again at every face as if one of them will suddenly fit. None of them do.

"Yeah," he says faintly. "Sorry."

With that, he ducks out of the Saloon, walking briskly back over the general store to buy his things before he gets distracted again by some inconsequential _nonsense._ What a damn fool he just made of himself, waltzing in like he had any business in a place like that. After a beat or two, the piano picks right back up. Isaac keeps walking. 

If Isaac uses too much force to open the door and startles the shopkeeper, he doesn't apologize. Mr. Worth eyes him warily as Isaac glares at the display like it's insulted his mother.

Isaac grabs a can of peas another can of carrots and after a moment's consideration, another small pack of jerky. He turns around and slams it on the counter with a ferocity that surprises even himself. 

_What is wrong with me?_

Mr. Worth tells him the price and Isaac manages to place the coins on the counter with less force this time. He takes his purchase and leaves. 

_Why am I so angry?_

He’s barely back across at the hotel when the street erupts into chaos. A man is flying through one of the Smithfield's windows, bouncing off the porch and splashing down into the mud where bits of glass and wood fall on him like rain. A giant of a man slams past the doors and stomps down the steps to join the first one in the mud. 

"Come on, pretty boy," the giant sneers as the other man rolls in the mud to get to his feet. 

"Pretty boy?" the first repeats incredulously. "You're kidding me. _Pretty boy?_ " He winds up his right arm and connects a fist to the giant's chest. His left follows, but the giant blocks it. He lands a punch of his own and when the other man doubles over with the blow he follows it with a knee to the chin. The smaller goes down in the mud, only to spring back up with a vicious uppercut that sends the giant staggering back. He seems genuinely surprised by the strike, as if he thought the fight was already won when he sent his opponent sprawling in the mud. 

"Come on then, let's see it," he growls out. 

Isaac isn't the betting sort, but he thinks he would put his money on the bigger guy. He's got half a foot and at least 60 pounds on the other, but the smaller man is as ruthless as he is untiring. A crowd has gathered around the brawl, the townspeople pausing their work to watch what's probably the most interesting thing to happen here in days, picking sides and cheering on. 

"You show him, Tommy!" 

"Yeah, show him how we do it in Valentine."

"Knock his head off!" 

The giant, Tommy, apparently, takes another swing. The other man ducks expertly and counters with a wild haymaker on his unguarded opponent. He manages to get another blow in before Tommy recovers and shoves him off balance to get him in a chokehold. The smaller throws his elbow, catching Tommy is the gut several times before he releases, and the man whirls around and misses a left hook. 

"You okay there, Arthur?" someone asks from the crowd. 

"Yeah," the smaller calls back, shaking his fist out and sounding absolutely elated."I got this son of a bitch." 

"Hurry up then, we got drinks waiting," someone else replies. 

Isaac stares, rooted to his spot in the back of the crowd in a mix of fascination and revulsion. He knows that voice, he realizes. It's the same that had him running into the saloon like a spooked rabbit. He knows the man it belongs to, finally has a face to put to the voice. 

"Put that ape down, come on!" 

"Come on, Arthur, he's a moron!" 

_Arthur._

His earlier fury evaporates, replaced with a fragile kind of disbelief. Has it really been ten years? Isaac never expected to see him again, yet here he is, covered in mud and blood and getting the beating of a lifetime in the middle of a stinking livestock town. 

He's dreamed of this. Spent hours imagining this reunion, what'd he say, what he'd do, but all those hours and all those words fly out of his head in the face of the scene in front of him. 

Tommy is tiring faster than his opponent, and he's looking to end the fight. He guards, waits for Arthur to throw another punch, and in the opening that provides, gets his hands around Arthur's throat and throws him down. One hand presses keeps Arthur's face in the mud and the other grasps Arthur's left hand, trying to keep him pinned with his massive body. Arthur struggles and kicks out helplessly. Isaac wonders in the back of his mind if he should do something. 

Arthur throws his weight to the left and manages to get his right arm free. He swings blindly, manages to catch Tommy with enough force to stagger him and follows it with a kick to the groin. When Tommy doubles over, Arthur seizes the opportunity to haul him down in the mud and climb on top, landing a blow on his face that cracks his nose loud enough for the crowd to hear. 

Arthur doesn't stop, brings down blow after bone-crunching blow even after Tommy falls limp. 

_He's gonna kill him,_ Isaac realizes like a sinking stone in his stomach. 

The crowd murmurs around him, shocked by the brawl turned senseless beating. Someone's pushing through, moving to the front to put themself between Arthur's bloody fist and Tommy's bloodier face. 

"Stop! Stop! Please, I beg you, stop!" And who else would it be but that Downes fellow, waving his open hands placatingly in Arthur's face. "Come sir, you've won the fight already, surely that's enough?" 

"What business is it of yours?" Arthur snarls, dropping Tommy's shirt so he can drop unmoving back into the mud. 

"No business," Mr. Downes pleads, covering his mouth briefly to cough. "No business sir, but please, I beg you-" 

He doesn't get to finish before Arthur shoves him away, pain twisting his face as he shoulders through the crowd. Mr. Downes kneels by Tommy's side to check him over. With the spectacle over, the crowd begins to disperse. Only Isaac stays put, dread and anticipation both curling unpleasantly in his gut as he watches his father approach. Their eyes meet, two identical shades of blue-green crashing like breaking ocean waves. His features sour further, if that's even possible. Isaac opens his mouth to say something, anything, but words fail him. 

"Fuck you lookin' at, kid?" Arthur growls and roughly bumps his shoulder with enough force to send him stumbling back a step, his cans from the general store dropping into the mud with a wet sucking sound. 

Arthur limps past like he's nothing, and that makes Isaac feel like he's less than nothing. The conflicting surge of emotions recede, leaving only a hollow void in his chest. He gathers his cans to his chest, smearing mud, and spares one last glance over his shoulder. 

Arthur's sitting on the edge of the general store's porch, caked in enough mud to hide the bruises he earned from the fight. He's talking with a small group of men, some Isaac recognises from the crowd, and a couple he doesn't. He's close enough that he should be able to hear what they're saying, but he can't hear a thing over the blood rushing in his ears. Arthur doesn't look at him. 

Blinking against the sudden burn in his eyes, Isaac retreats to his little corner on the outskirts of the tent city. 

* * *

_Mama,_

_It's been a while since I last wrote. I've been busy working at the stable, as you know. Past few days I've come back so tired all I can do is sleep. It's hard work, but Mr. Levi treats me well. He's been one of the only people in this forsaken town to do so._

_I hate it here, Mama, I truly do. Can't have a single thing without getting robbed, and the sherriff don't seem to care. Between the mud and the smell I wonder if I'll ever be clean again. I want to leave and go somewhere no one else has ever been._

_I ran into pa earlier, here of all places. I guess that's why I'm writing you. He was beating some feller's face in. Probably would've killed the sorry creature if someone hadn't stopped him. He didn't even recognize me. Told me to get lost and shoved me out of his way like I was something nasty._

_You always had a way of making sense out of even the most confusing things, Mama. I wish you were here. Maybe you'd be able to make sense of this, maybe explain to me why the world is so set on keeping me down because I haven't the first clue. Should I even bother trying to talk to pa? Seems like he wants nothing to do with me, and after watching him beat a man half to death, I'm nervous about approaching him at all._

_It's all just so unfair. I am so sad and angry and tired. I miss you terribly. More and more each day. I hope you're resting easy. I hope you're still looking out for me._

_Yours,_

_Isaac Morgan._

Isaac sticks his pencil in the dirt and carefully folds the page before making his way to the communal campfire. It's late, way past the time most folks would've gone to sleep, yet there's still a couple men dozing drunkenly by the fire. Isaac pays them no mind as he settles on the weathered log that serves as a bench near the fire. 

Someone had left a big stick nearby before going to bed. Isaac uses it to poke at the logs, coaxing the flames taller and hotter. 

There's a certain kind of quiet that can only be achieved at this hour. No rambling wagons, no dogs barking or people talking and no music from that damn saloon. There's only the crackling of the fire, underlaid by the endless hum of crickets, cut only by the occasional hoot or the odd howl. This, Isaac thinks, is the best Valentine will ever get. 

He tosses the letter into the fire, watches the edges curl before igniting. The flames hungrily devour the paper, leaving nothing but ash to float up into the endless sea of stars. 

Isaac prays that Momma gets it, wherever she is. 


End file.
